


Of drawing and curiosity

by OmittedWords



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:22:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25113067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmittedWords/pseuds/OmittedWords
Summary: A look into Dean Thomas.





	Of drawing and curiosity

**Author's Note:**

> Written for QLFC Season Eight- Round Seven
> 
> CHASER 2: Africa - This is the second-largest continent in the world, making up 15% of the world's population, and has over 2,000 languages spoken there alone. — Write a character of African descent.
> 
> Optional Prompts: 5. [Word] Sky, 8. [Plot Point] Travelling abroad, 15. [Weather] Clear Skies
> 
> Word count:1442

The portkey deposits Dean in front of a car. He takes a step towards the car before the nausea catches up to him and he doubles over.

“Hey, are you doing alright there?” A man gets out of the car and rushes over to him. Dean is feeling better now, though still giddy.

“I’m fine. Sorry about that.”

The man waves the apology away and holds out his hand with a wide grin.

“My name is Andre Mthembu.”

“Dean Thomas,” he replied, reaching over for the handshake.

“Car’s all ready for you. Map and a compass in there. There should be enough food for a day trip.”

“Thank you.”

“You sure you don’t want me to accompany you? I can get you there easier.”

Dean smiles, shaking his head. “No, thanks. I’ve got this.”

He slides into the driver’s seat. Turning the key, he waves to Andre before setting off on his trip. He picks up speed; the view on either side of him blending into greens and creams and light browns. The sky is completely clear of any clouds, the blue a breath-taking sight.

xxx

_Dean finished his drawing and leaned against his chair with a sigh. The drawing of Greenhouse 3 which he’d been working on for the past hour was finally done. He’d been able to make a rough sketch of the greenhouse during Herbology but hadn’t been able to complete it then._

_He found himself drawing a lot of the time these days. A messy sketch of McGonagall’s pointy hat, sneakily drawn on the edge of his parchment with quill and ink. A pencil drawing of his telescope in Astronomy when he was supposed to be writing notes. He found himself increasingly irritated during DADA and drew a large toad with a bow atop its head._

_“What have you got there, mate?” asked Seamus, sitting down in front of him. “Aiming to draw the whole of Hogwarts before the year ends?”_

_Seamus was teasing him, and Dean laughed. “No, not really.”_

_“Would be cool if you did, though. What’s this?” He’d reached over and picked up an old, yellowed sketchbook from beside Dean. It looked as though it was about to fall apart and he winced as Seamus roughly flicked through the pages._

_“Careful there.”_

_“Sorry,” replied Seamus and whistled. “Wow, these are amazing.”_

_“It’s not mine,” said Dean, correctly interpreting the look of admiration on his best friend’s face. “Belonged to my dad.”_

_The book was filled with drawings of scenery, all of them done beautifully with charcoal. Some of the scenery had even been drawn multiple times and Dean wondered why. Had his father simply drawn some beautiful scenery or were they important to him in some way? Did they mean anything?_

_“Blyde River Canyon. Bourke’s Luck Potholes. The Three Rondavels.” Seamus was reading the scrawl on top of each page, labelling the places. “Where are these places?”_

_“Don’t know. I just got the notebook this year. It was amongst all the new sketchbooks my mother had packed for me.”_

_“Maybe she’d know? You should ask her; these places look so nice.”_

_Dean nodded absently as he picked up his art supplies and cleared up the table. He wasn’t going to risk the chance of distressing his mother by asking her about his deceased father. It wouldn’t be fair for her. Besides, he had far too much of a guilty conscience to send her a letter. He’d spent the whole of the holidays pretending like everything had been alright, as if he hadn’t seen a schoolmate of his murdered (he believed Dumbledore when he announced that Cedric was murdered by You-Know-Who). He talked about exams, drawing and pranks and never once did he mention a war brewing in the horizon._

_His mother would never have sent him back if she knew and so, he hid it. The guilt caught in his throat, but he had no choice. He had to come!_

_How could he ask his mother about something that might cause her distress when he’d withheld such important information from her?_

xxx

The sketchbook is with him even now, in his backpack with his own drawing materials. Dean had packed the art supplies even though he’d worried that he might not be able to use them.

It’s been a while since he’s gotten such fresh air. The sun was beating down on him now; not a cloud in sight to protect him from its’ harsh glares. It’s a good thing there aren’t clouds though. With the sky clear as it is now, he should be able to see the scenery clearly. Besides, he found that he liked the nearly scalding heat. He enjoyed the way the light shone on his dark skin and how the heat felt under his fingertips as he clutched the steering wheel.

xxx

_Dean hadn’t been able to draw for a while. A couple of months. Every time he picked up the pencil it felt heavy in his hand, and his hand didn’t move quite how he wanted it to. He ended up ripping every single drawing he tried to do and ended up with crumpled up paper around him and teardrops on his sketchpad._

_It was so frustrating._

_Drawing had been an escape for him, a haven. It’d been something that had been his sanctuary, and then it’d slipped through his fingertips. Maybe it’d been because of the year on the run; he hadn’t been able to draw anything then._

_Maybe he’d never draw again, he thought, and the fear clings to him. He couldn’t. He couldn’t lose it. Drawing kept him grounded._

_Had his father drawn to keep himself grounded too? He thought about the drawings and how he’d memorised them as though they’d tell him stories, looked at them enough that he could picture it with his eyes closed._

_The lingering curiosity came back with an urgency, as though the drawings would fade away if he didn’t know. As though he’d slip away if he didn’t know and he leapt out of the chair to hunt for his father’s sketchbook._

xxx

A glance at the map tells him that he’s nearly there now. He’s nearly reached The Three Rondavels View Point; one of the locations in the sketchbook and the one that’d been repeated the most. He finds himself picking up speed, curious as to what it’d look like. Would it be how he’d imagined it?

It wasn’t.

The scenery takes his breath away. He hadn’t imagined it to be so big and he certainly hadn’t imagined the colours to be so vibrant. _So alive._ The light hits the three mountain tops, making the rock seem bronze at parts. The sky is completely clear and an astonishing bright blue behind the mountains, and he finds himself holding his breath, as if it’d go away if he didn’t. As if it were a dream that he’d wake up from if he weren’t careful.

But it’s not a dream, the vibrant and beautiful colours are very much real, and he can’t remember how long he’s been staring at it, awe-struck. No wonder his father had made multiple drawings.

He reaches to his bag, slowly pulls out his sketchpad and watercolours and starts drawing. He works in silence, and the atmosphere calms him. There’s no need to hurry.

xxx

_He’d apparated straight to his mother’s house and it could’ve gone so wrong but thankfully she was the only one there at that time._

_Conversation had been stilted ever since Dean had returned after the battle at Hogwarts and explained everything to his mother. She’d been rightfully angry with him and he’d apologised and explained himself. Conversation had been uncomfortable, but it was slowly setting itself to rights._

_That time though, he’d jumped straight into all his questions._

_“Why’d he go there? There are so many drawings. Why? Why did you give me this?”_

_And his mother had smiled, softly and somewhat melancholy._

_“I didn’t get much time with your father. They were fleeting days. But I do remember him telling me about this trip to South Africa. He’d driven along the Blyde River and he told me what and experience it was.”_

_“Why? Why did he go?”_

_“He was of South African descent, though he’d never been there. As soon as he’d known, he’d gone there. It was before I met him, but he talked about it avidly. Told me that it was the most beautiful place he’d ever been to.”_

_She patted his cheek and he noticed wrinkles lining her hand. When had that happened?_

_He cleared his throat, finally gathered up his courage and whispered, “Could you tell me about him?”_

_“Of course, sweetie.”_


End file.
